She Says

Sweet is the sight
Of her room
Window opened by candlelight

How would you know?

He gazes out absentmindedly at the extensive grounds surrounding his mansion, inwardly seething with jealousy and desperation. He is jolted back to reality when he notices that his view is partially obscured by the fluttering lace curtains which frame the window. The lace brings him out of his reverie, reminding him that he is in her room. Following that thought are visions of her lovely face, and he sighs discontentedly. His gray eyes widen their focus to encompass his immediate surroundings. He is startled by how well the room reflects her vibrancy.

It is effeminate in structure and decoration, mirroring her beauty and fragility. The white, wooden desk in the corner, however, reveals the true woman beneath that creamy white skin. Its smooth surface is cluttered with parchments, newspapers, and books. There is no order in that haphazard mess, giving it a homey feel. That is what she is: the sweet intoxication of warmth, home, and disorderly but loving attachments, all mixed as one. The Quidditch clippings that litter her corkboard pay homage to her childhood; how could she not love Quidditch after growing up with six brothers? The light blue Healer robes draped over her chair indicate her compassionate nature. After all, she has no need for the money, yet she still insists on working there.

Cold winter on the shore
Chills the dress she wore
It's on the floor
Still it feels so warm tonight

He rises from the window seat and stalks over to stand before her closet. Its floor is littered with robes, under things, and socks. He smiles to himself as he stoops and picks up her dark brown cloak. It is the same color as her vibrant eyes. He is startled when he realizes that her cloak is still warm; she must have been wearing it before she left for work at St. Mungo's. He closes his eyes in pain and presses the cloth to his cheek and chest, as though it will bring him closer to her.

He has missed her the entire week he was away. True, he had his duties to fulfill as the seeker for Puddlemere United, but he would give it all up to just stay with her. That thought makes him frown. Why in Merlin's name is he still on that bloody team? He doesn't need the money, or the fame; the Malfoy name ensured his place at the top of society's ranks even before he was born. So, why does he do it?

The warmth of the sleeves and the vague scent of her perfume remind him of her own answer to that question. "When I'm not with you, it's the only way I feel alive," she had whispered to him one night, her warm arms encircling his waist. Those words are unerringly accurate for him as well. In her company, he knows that she doesn't judge him for his name, his mark, his past obligations, or his money. Her laughter and sense of humor is infectious, and he enjoys hearing her unique perceptions on life. She is the center of his attention, and he loves her with everything that's left of him. Without her, he is reviled for the inhuman things he was forced to do; his only solace then is with his broom. On the Quidditch pitch, he is freed from the defensiveness that has become a second skin. He loves the exhilaration of flight, the feel of the wind as it courses through his very being. The sense of purpose he has when he chases after the snitch reminds him that he's still human, even after all that has happened.

Swing into flight
Over her hills at twilight
I guess that's right now
While we're here

Memories of his sordid past remind him of his fifth year, when she had become the temporary Gryffindor seeker after Potter was kicked off the team. It was impossible for him to ignore her, for she had been as quick as lightning on her broom; perhaps she wasn't as great as Potter was, but she was still spectacular in her own right. At first, she simply seemed like another Weasley, a blur of red clashing over worn, maroon robes. But when he looked closer, he could see her brown eyes flashing with intent, her face screwed up in concentration, and her body pressed against her broom handle for aerodynamic maneuvering.

Once he had stopped to notice her, he couldn't stop looking, no matter how hard he tried. He would stare at her for days on end, watching her eyes light up with the rest of her face as she laughed at one of her brothers' gags. He watched as she would absentmindedly chew on the end of her quill while she thought out a question in an assignment. He even saw her tears when she thought no one was looking. In his eyes, she transformed from a poor, worthless Muggle-lover into a beautiful, intriguing woman.

Their friendship had started out innocently enough, in his seventh year. She had been at the lake one night, watching the water as it rippled past her. He had seen her red hair as it fluttered in the light breeze and glinted from the moonlight. He had been on a nocturnal walk around the perimeter of the castle, trying to weigh his options in becoming a Death Eater or not. He decided to move closer to her, but refrain from disturbing her solitude. When he silently made his way near her, he realized that her forehead was leaning against her knees, while her shoulders shook from whimpering sobs.

He forgot his intention of leaving her alone, and ambled his way to her side. "Weasley?" he whispered.

Tell me why it's so funny
That you're so funny
When you're mad
You're always so mad

She turned her red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes to his, hissed, "Sod off, Malfoy," and faced the water once again.

He stood there in shock, although he did not outwardly show it. She was obviously upset about something, yet she had uttered his name with such disgust. He seethed at her blatant avoidance, and resolved to annoy her as much as possible. Or so he tried to convince himself.

He sat down by her side, drew his knees up so that his arms draped over them, and said insolently, "Hmmm, interesting. A Harpy's mouth on the face of an innocent cherub."

She snapped her head towards him so quickly that he could feel the air move in protest, like a slap across his face. Her eyes were spitting fire at him. "Don't you have anyone else to torment? Like Harry?"

Her hands lay on the ground at her sides, clenching and unclenching in her anger. He was distracted by their small size, the adorable way that they accentuated her innocence and beauty. Instead of replying, he merely turned his gaze out upon the water and said, "You're beautiful when you're mad."

He knew she gaped at him stupidly, but he never looked at her. So, she faced the lake again, and they fell into a companionable silence.

The rest of that year, they continued to keep each other company as they contemplated their own thoughts by the lake. He never knew what she was thinking, but he was always there for moral support when she needed it. When she cried, he held one of those small hands in his own, squeezing it softly in reassurance. Every time he stewed in a rage over his father, she would wrap an arm around his waist and lean her head on his shoulder. Instead of rejecting her as filth or a burden, he would welcome that touch of familiarity and comfort.

Years had passed since then, and that was what they had: familiarity and comfort. Even when he went on those killing rampages with his fellow Death Eaters, he could always come back to her and cry on her shoulder. She would soothe him, never judging him for his double-agent status or his weakness in front of her. Slowly but surely, she unraveled every shred of Malfoy pretence from him, and covered his vulnerability with her love.

And that's why I'm wondering why
You had to tell me
What's going on in your head
What's wrong

Their relationship became public after the war was over and Voldemort had been defeated, with the blessings of every one of her brothers... except that great prat, Weasel. The worst day of his life was the day he learned that the Weasel was traded to Puddlemere United. That prat used every opportunity to nettle him about Ginny. Lately, Weasel had hinted that he was spending far too much time away from her. With his own brand of subtlety, which resembled that of a roaring freight train, Weasel had said that she was meeting Potter for dinner last Wednesday. On Thursday, she had sent him an owl, telling him that she had "important news."

The moment he received that owl, he had a sinking certainty that whatever she had to say concerned Potter. He had spent an entire week in a rage, barely seeing the snitch at practice or in their games. All of his thoughts were focused on her. As he zoomed past Quidditch stands, he wondered whether she was in Potter's arms. When he flew his laps over the pitch, he agonized over why she had to run to Potter, of all people. While dodging Bludgers, he dreaded the day when she would break the news to him.

Once that week was over, he had hurriedly apparated back home. He had seen, with much relief, that she was at work and not off snogging Potter. So, here he stood at the foot of her bed, contemplating the best means by which to secure her love.

Come around to another time when you
Won't have to run

How could he possibly convince this beautiful woman, who he doesn't deserve, to stay with him? He is everything she isn't. She has compassion, while he only has bitterness and regret. He savors the finer things that life has to offer, but she cherishes small joys and happiness. He revels in his fame and power, which she views as nothing more than another part of life. He is a man who cannot fathom what love is, whereas she is a creature made to give and receive it.

Despite his heartlessness, he is certain he loves her. But he had taken a damned long time to do anything about it. He supposes that it is only natural for an amazing girl like her to lose her patience, and start looking for another man. Someone who can show her his feelings. Someone who wouldn't leave her side for anything in the world. Someone who would marry her without a qualm. Someone who could tell her he loves her.

And when she says she wants somebody else
I hope you know that's she doesn't mean you

Hours fly by like the leaves flitting about outside, lost in the last bit of autumnal wind before the onset of winter. He is seated on her bed, twisting a loose strand of red hair around his finger. Despite its thickness, he can still ascertain the silky texture of her hair. He imagines what she looks like in bed, her legs sprawled out under the covers and her hair fanned out across the pillow beneath her head. She always looks so happy when he sees her like that, as though she is standing back from her life and enjoying what she sees.

He looks around the room again, taking it in. He had insisted that she have a room of her own, so that she would have privacy if she ever needed it. When he was home, she had always shared his bed, but retreated here for peaceful solitude. Had she become too accustomed to her solitude? Did she view his gift of this room as a subtle hint to leave?

Frantically, he jumps up and begins to pace the floor in front of the room. He checks the clock near her dresser, and is astonished when he realizes that she should have been home an hour ago. Anxiety fills him as he continues pacing, desperate for a way to release his anguish. After a few minutes, he finally decides to go flying.

He is flying like a demon; trying any way he can to rid himself of his hurt and betrayal. Flying has always lifted his mood, and he hopes that it will do so this time. But he is still as depressed and desperate as he once was. Finally, he decides to literally throw caution to the wind, and performs a Wronski Feint.

The air flying past him on his steep dive does the trick; he is lost in a sense of euphoria. In fact, he is so lost that he forgets to bring his broom up quickly, and dives straight to the ground.

And when she breaks down and makes a sound
You'll never hear her the way that I do

He awakes with a headache and an overlying sense of stiffness. His eyes flutter open, and he stares into worried brown eyes. Without warning, his vision is filled with red, and he is choking on her hair.

"Draco!" she cries, "I was so worried!" She finally extricates herself from him and asks, "What were you bloody doing?"

He hungrily roams her face with his eyes, for he knows that this will be the last time that he'll see her this way. This is how he wants to remember her: compassionate, loving, scolding, and sweet, all rolled into one expression. Then, he looks away, unable to bear the pain. "Isn't there something you wanted to tell me?"

He hears her clear her throat nervously. "Err... yes," she begins, and then pauses.

He closes his eyes and can practically feel his heart break. "Don't play games with me, Gin. Tell me," he demands.

"Well, it's about..." she trails off, then implores, "Oh, Draco, this was not how I wanted to say this!"

"Just bloody tell me!" he grits out through clenched teeth.

"I... I... I'm pregnant, Draco," she finishes in a whisper.

His eyes fly open in shock. He stares at her incredulously. She starts fidgeting under his gaze, and tries to explain, "I...wanted to tell you earlier, but-"

He cuts her off by pushing his lips against hers and drawing her to lie on top of him. She willingly obliges, and strokes his cheek as she returns his kisses.

He finally breaks away and swallows a lump in his throat. "Gin, I..." his hoarse voice croaks with suppressed emotion. "I..."

"Hush," she whispers against his lips, before drawing him into another dizzying kiss. "I know," she says with a small smile when she breaks away. She gazes at him through watery brown eyes, and continues, "I love you, too."

He captures her lips again, losing himself in the feel of her warm body over his. She is cradling him so that he does not balk from his sudden fragility; a surge of triumph courses through his veins when he realizes that she's doing it because she loves him. She loves him.

He fists his hand in her hair, relishing the silken cage that has entangled his fingers. His heart feels as though it will burst from a whirlwind of emotion, but his mind is clear and lucid. With true Malfoy arrogance, he sends a mental missive to his supposed rival:

And when she says she wants someone to love
I hope you know that she doesn't mean you